


Not What It Seems

by golden_redhead



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Cursed, Friendship, Halloween, M/M, Magic, Werewolf Momota Kaito, Witch Curses, Witches, witch Ouma Kokichi, witch Saihara Shuichi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_redhead/pseuds/golden_redhead
Summary: “So, uh,” Momota rubs at the back of his neck, looking around unsurely, “are you really a witch?”The smaller man blinks up at him slowly and then his expression melts into a huge grin that seems to take over his entire face. “Oh, absolutely!” he says, eyes bright. “I’m totally a witch.”Momota lights up, glad to at least hear some good news, his tail thumping against the floor excitedly. Ouma eyes it amusedly, the corners of his lips twitching in a smirk.“I need your help,”---When a werewolf claiming that he's been cursed appears at the witch shop, Ouma promises to help. Shenanigans ensue.





	Not What It Seems

Momota is vaguely aware that he’s been lurking in the shadows near the small shop tucked in between the buildings, gathering up the courage to get closer, but chickening out whenever he got brave enough to come closer. It’s by the time that he passes the shop’s door for the sixth time in a row that he decides he’s being ridiculous. 

The door looks innocent enough, albeit a little creepy with its crooked sign and the impressively-looking spider web curling over its rough wooden surface. Other than that, though, it looks just like any other door that lines along the length of the street, almost boringly ordinary. 

Momota isn’t sure what he expected but it’s certainly not that. 

Gulping loudly, his hand turns the knob, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat, and with a sharp inhale he pushes the door open. The cracking sound that follows forcing his ears to lay flat against his head in an attempt to tune it out, the noise unpleasant for his sensitive hearing. 

If the place looked unsuspicious on the outside, then the inside is its total opposite. Before he could even properly step inside the shop, he can sense every corner pulsing with magic so strong even a non-magical creature like him could feel it. There was magic everywhere, even in the smallest speck of dust coating the old tomes arranged in a row on the shelves positively brimming with it. It’s almost too much, suddenly being surrounded with magic from every side, the strength of it making him breathless, desperate to will the heart hammering in his chest to calm down. 

Drawing a sharp breath, he steps inside before he could turn around and run, run as far away from this place as possible. His tail trails behind him, ears still splayed flat on his head, one of his hands curling into a fist until he can feel the familiar sting of claws piercing through the skin. He lets the pain ground him, distract from the overwhelming feeling of magic floating around him like an invisible threat, ready to strike at any moment, leaving him completely defenseless. He doesn’t really have a choice, though. This time magic is his only chance and only witches can channel it accurately, bending the limits of reality to their will. He has no other choice but to trust magic, just this once.

“Um… Hello?” he calls out anxiously, almost jumping when the heavy door shuts behind him with a resonating thud and the shrill melody of the glass wind chimes pierces through the quiet shop. 

A small figure at the counter deeper into the shop perks up at the sudden disturbance, a pair of bright, lilac eyes looking in Momota’s direction curiously. 

“Oh,” the man’s face scrunches in disappointment. “I thought I smelled a wet dog.”

An uncontrolled spark of irritation prickles under Momota’s skin before he could even process the insulting words, a small growl forming in his throat and threatening to slip past his lips. He sinks his fangs into his lower lip, hard, hard enough that moments later he tastes the metallic taste of blood spilling over his tongue. 

The man laughs seeing his reaction, a forced, silly sound that doesn’t sound even remotely natural. “Aw, no need getting your panties in a twist!” 

Momota eyes him suspiciously through narrowed eyes, forcing his tense muscles to relax, despite the unease. 

“Hmph,” the man at the counter huffs through his nose noisily. “Touchy, aren’t ya? 

He shrugs slightly when Momota continues to stare wordlessly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, the name’s Ouma Kokichi. The pleasure is all yours!”

“Momota Kaito,” Momota says hesitantly, glancing nervously back at the door. Every fiber of his body screams at him to leave, to keep as far away from this strange man as he possibly can. 

Ouma grins. “What can I do for you, Momota-chan?”

Momota makes a face at the nickname, shooting Ouma an incredulous look but all he gets in response is the widening of his smile as he splays his hands behind his head, looking incredibly pleased with himself, as if aware of how trapped Momota feels. With a sense of surprise, Momota realizes he’s never wanted to punch a complete stranger as much as he does at this very moment.

“So, uh,” Momota rubs at the back of his neck, looking around unsurely, “are you really a witch?”

The smaller man blinks up at him slowly and then his expression melts into a huge grin that seems to take over his entire face. “Oh, absolutely!” he says, eyes bright. “I’m totally a witch.”

Momota lights up, glad to at least hear some good news, his tail thumping against the floor excitedly. Ouma eyes it amusedly, the corners of his lips twitching in a smirk. 

“I need your help,” he exclaims loudly, taking a step closer to the counter. 

Ouma cocks his head to the side, the mocking undertone in his voice irking Momota the wrong way, making him wish he could wipe that annoying smirk from his face. “Do you, now?”

Momota nods his head with so much vigor for a moment Ouma’s convinced his head is going to fall off and roll down his shoulders. 

“I’ve been cursed.”

Ouma’s eyebrows shot up in a perfect arch, disappearing beneath the long strands that fall onto his face, framing it delicately. “Oh?”

Momota scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish, as if embarrassed to admit it. “Yeah,” he chuckles quietly and then those mauvish red eyes turn to Ouma, unsure but hopeful. “I… I need help.”

“And what, pray tell, kind of curse are we talking about here?” 

“I… Uh, I'm invisible.”

Ouma stares.

When there is no follow up, his lips twist into a smile that looks suspiciously like that of pity. 

“I hate to break it to you, Momota-chan, but I am pretty sure I can see you.”

Momota growls impatiently, shaking his head vigorously and slamming his hand against the counter. Ouma doesn’t even twitch. 

“You don’t get it,” he cries, his voice breaking slightly as it hits more hysterical notes. “You can see me, yeah, but my pack can’t. One day I just woke up and… and they couldn’t see me a-and I don’t know what to do.” 

That finally seems to catch Ouma’s interest. 

“Turning invisible, huh?” The werewolf could feel Ouma’s bright eyes peering right into his soul, his gaze so penetrating he feels like curling up in a corner, unable to bear the intensity of it. “And when exactly has it started?”

Momota shrugs helplessly in a non-answer. “Dunno… A few days ago?”

Ouma tsks, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. 

“Anything else I should know?” he asks, a small frown tugging at his eyebrows. 

Momota seems to consider the question for a moment, but then shakes his head no and bites the inside of his cheek, ears down. He hardly understands any of it, much less has any idea what is happening. Or why. 

“Ugh,” Ouma rolls his eyes, “of course. You sure ain’t making my job any easier, Momota-chan.”

He hops over the counter and approaches the large bookcase tucked in the corner, heavy scrolls of parchment and dusty, old books lined on the shelves. Dragging his eyes over the covers, he eventually reaches to grasp at one of the books, an old tome with yellowing pages and title written in long, curvy letters in a language Momota doesn’t recognize. Knees bending under its weight, Ouma carries the book to the counter where he proceeds to flick through the pages, murmuring something under his nose, too quiet for Momota to catch it. 

With nothing else to do, Momota gives in to his curiosity, and lets his eyes wander to the various items, each of them overflowing with magical energy, whether it’s vials of mysterious elixirs, the broom leaning against the wall or the old owl perched high above his head at one of the higher shelves, blinking at him from up high. 

At one point, a particularly gorgeous amulet catches his eye, an impressive jewel gleaming and shimmering in the dark shop as if someone captured the essence of the sun inside. Intrigued, he reaches out, wondering if the touch of it would burn, wondering if he—

“Don’t touch it,” warns Ouma without even looking his way, nose-deep in the tome splayed on the counter. 

Momota freezes obediently, albeit confused. 

“It’s just some old amulet,” he points out almost defensively but his voice carries a questioning note, suddenly not so certain anymore whether what he’s saying is as true as he believed it to be. 

“If you touch it your skin is gonna melt,” informs him Ouma cheerfully, finally tearing his eyes away from the book and turning to bare his teeth in a shit-eating grin. He looks strangely pleased with the concept of Momota with his skin melted. The werewolf takes a hesitant step back, his eyes widening in alarm and his tail wrapping around his legs as if protectively. 

“You’re joking,” he accuses Ouma, but his voice lacks conviction.

“Oh, not at all,” dark strands of Ouma’s hair bounce around his face when he shakes his head and gestures to the far corner of the shop with his chin, “see that cauldron over there?”

Momota drags his eyes in that direction, letting them fall on a brass cauldron decorated with a variety of little gems running along the length of its brim, elegantly coiling and bending runes that look as if moving and shifting, changing shapes whenever he blinks his eyes. 

“Um… Yeah?”

“Made it from the skin of the last loser who thought it was ‘just some old amulet’,” Ouma grins and sends him a small wink. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Uhh…”

Ouma only giggles with glee at the look of horror that flashes through Momota’s face when he hurriedly backs away from the amulet as if it burned him, pressing his hands to his sides and keeping them to himself to avoid accidentally touching anything. 

With nothing else to do while Ouma goes back to studying his book, Momota stands there awkwardly. 

The place is weird, he decides, looking around anxiously, no longer interested in exploring its dark corners. And not just because of the threat of his skin melting if he makes the mistake of touching something he shouldn’t.

He’s never liked magic, taught to avoid it at all cost, taught to never trust its deceitful ways. Magic was a weapon, a powerful and unpredictable force he had no control over, force that was the reason why his kind has been forced to live in hiding for centuries. Even once they gained back their freedom, most of them never quite adapted back to the society that betrayed them, many choosing the solitude and safety of their little packs, never getting to know the world outside of it and content with that choice.

“Wow, Momota-chan,” Ouma speaks up, “you sure you didn’t anger any deities? Whoever cast that curse sure knew what they’re doing. You know, I almost envy you, I wish someone hated me as much as—”

“Are you gonna help me or not?” Momota interrupts him with a hard glare, a twinge of annoyance flaring back in his stomach, a twinge of panic at the realization that he might be wasting his time, that he’s no closer to breaking the curse than he was once it first started happening and if he doesn’t do something soon they’ll forget about him altogether and he—he—

It’s the touch of something cool and soft that pulls him out of his spiraling out of control thoughts, sense of dread still tugging at his insides as he struggles to focus back on reality, Ouma’s lilac eyes staring into his, searching. 

He doesn’t like this guy and not only because he’s a witch. There’s something familiar about him, like catching a scent of_ something _ that reminds him of his childhood, fleeting and unclear and yet familiar, like a distant memory. 

“Stay with me, Momota-chan,” Ouma murmurs softly, his voice lowered into a barely audible hush that forces Momota to strains his ears to hear it in the first place. 

His eyebrows furrowing in a frown, he slaps Ouma’s hands away and takes a step back, drawing in a shaky breath, his heart throbbing in his chest as he scrambles to calm down his racing thoughts. 

Ouma clears his throat noisily with a pointed stare. 

“Anyways, I am preeetty sure that I can help you. No promises, though!”

Momota releases a small sigh, his shoulders relaxing. 

“It won’t be easy of course,” adds Ouma. “I’m really doing you a solid here, Momota-chan.” He plops the book on the counter, flocks of dust rising into the air, making Momota’s nose twitch and face twist as he tries to fight down the urge to sneeze. 

“And then of course we should discuss the payment,” Ouma turns back to him and bares his teeth in a smile, lilac eyes gleaming in the dim light of the magic shop, a dangerous glint flashing through them for a split second.

Momota fidgets in place, his tail twitching and spasming uneasily, ears flopping just to press flat against his head. He averts his eyes, avoiding Ouma’s gaze almost shyly, much to Ouma’s amusement. 

He clicks his tongue, cocking his head to the side curiously. “I take it that the payment will be an issue?”

“I’m… Um, there aren’t exactly many ways a werewolf can get money,” he explains awkwardly, rubbing his hand against the patch of skin at the back of his neck, uncomfortable. 

“By which you mean that your species have no appreciation for monetary exchange for goods,” chirps Ouma, seemingly unbothered. 

Momota’s head jerks in a quick nod, his posture stiff and tense, all hunched up shoulders and distressed eyes. 

Ouma hums quietly, stroking his chin in faux thought, observing the squirming werewolf through the corner of his eye. 

“Well, let me make you a deal then. For now, let's focus on figuring out what the hell is wrong with you, Mister Furry Ass, and we’ll discuss the matter of payment later. How about it, hm?”

“I don’t really have much choice, have I?” Momota chuckles weakly. 

“Great!” Ouma’s face lights up and he turns to hop on the counter and lean over it, reaching for something Momota can’t quite see from this angle. “It’s a deal then!”

Moments later, he’s back on the ground and pushes something into his hands, Momota flinching violently at the sudden touch, a flash of panic passing through his face only to be replaced by a wave of shame crashing into him seconds later when he realizes what happened, when he realizes Ouma meant no harm. A dark blush of shame spreads over his face, cheeks heating up. His only saving grace is that if Ouma saw then he graciously decides not to comment on it.

Still feeling stupid, Momota decides to shift his focus to the small scrap of crumbled paper now clutched in his hands. There’s only one word, scribbled in Ouma’s messy handwriting. It doesn’t tell him anything. 

“Um,” he starts, but Ouma chimes in before he could gather his thoughts and even begin to formulate a proper question. 

“Be by this place tomorrow around midnight. Got it?”

Realizing that the hurriedly written word must mean the name of the street, Momota nods his head hesitantly, his grip around the paper tightening as he pulls it closer to his chest. 

That seems to satisfy Ouma. “Good. And now get out of my sight.”

“R-right,” Momota’s eyes widen. “Uh, sorry for taking up your time and thank you for your help, I guess?”

Ouma waves his hand dismissively. “Thank me after all is done. Now shoo! I am already bored.”

Momota leaves yieldingly, casting one last glance at the witch before the door slams shut after him. 

Ouma waits until Momota’s gone, leaving the shop ringing with silence, dark and cold, as if along with his presence Momota sucked out all the light and warmth out of the place. 

Only then, he lets his face fall. 

*

Saihara pushes the heavy door with his elbow, shuffling inside tiredly, exhaustion decorating his face with deep lines and dark bruises scattered beneath his pale gold eyes, a voiceless evidence of many nights spent bent over the desk, squinting over one book or another, reading in the faint light of the candles until they burn out. 

“Hey, I’m back,” he announces, looking around the place, some of his tiredness evaporating at the comforting smells of the shop, a unique combination of herbs and incense that soothes the deep lines of his forehead. He wriggles his arms out of his coat, sighing quietly when the heavy coils of material lift from his narrow shoulders and he puts it away on the counter in a heap. He smiles warmly at Ouma who observes him with sparks of amusement playing in his eyes, elbows on the counter and chin perched on his folded hands as if Saihara is the most peculiar thing he’s seen in a while. “Thanks for taking care of the shop while I was gone,” Saihara bows his head in gratitude. “How was it? It’s usually very slow at this time of the year. Did anyone come by?”

“Nope~!” sing-songs Ouma, shaking his head vigorously. “It was preeetty boring! I can’t believe Shumai sentenced me to such a boring task and wasted my whooole day.”

“Ah, I’m awfully sorry about that, Ouma-kun,” Saihara stammers out an apology, slowly taking out various bottle out of his leather bag, multicolored mixtures sloshing inside as he puts them away in a neat line on the shelf. “You know I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t an emergency.”

“Nishishi, I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me.” Ouma winks at him playfully and a small chuckle slips out from Saihara’s lips in response. 

“Of course,” he says, “just let me know if you ever need my help, Ouma-kun. I’ll be happy to return the favor.”

“Sure will!”

“You seem awfully happy, Ouma-kun,” he straightens up finally and blinks slowly, seizing Ouma with a watchful gaze of his eyes. “You sure nothing happened while I was out?”

Ouma’s face brightens, a wicked smile spreading on his face. 

“Oh, Saihara-chan is getting uncharacteristically nosy today!”

“A-ah, I didn’t mean to offend you, Ouma-kun, it’s just—”

Ouma laughs and leans in over the counter, practically shoving his face into Saihara’s, who takes an unsure step back, taken aback and still struggling to get out some kind of apology. 

“Maybe something happened,” Ouma giggles, pressing his finger against Saihara’s lips, his pale gold eyes widening in shock as he freezes under the cold touch of Ouma’s skin, effectively silenced, “or maybe it didn’t. It’s for me to know and for Saihara-chan to find out. Or not!”

With that he jumps over the counter, brushing past Saihara and disappearing behind the door before the still stunned witch has a chance to fully realize what happened or form any sort of comprehensive thought. 

**Author's Note:**

> It took me way too much time to actually finish this first chapter, I think I started working on it in July... But it's here and right on time for Halloween, yay! 🎃🎃🎃
> 
> As you can probably guess, there's more going on here, the idea is that all the creatures (so witches and werewolves but also others) live separately and there's some ongoing conflict between them. We got a small glimpse of it here with witches and werewolves, but I'll probably expand it in the future chapters. Originally, it was supposed to be 3 chapters long but I can already tell that it's gonna be longer than that, heh. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this little thing.  
Comments & kudos are very appreciated, I would want to hear your thoughts!
> 
> 🎃 Happy Halloween! 🎃


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